


fire on the left

by americanleaguer



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2010-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americanleaguer/pseuds/americanleaguer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted <a href="http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/23603.html">here at LJ</a>.  Some minor changes have been made to this version, mostly in the form of small edits.  There have been no major alterations (much as it kills me to not rewrite whole chunks of this).</p><p><b>Disclaimer:</b>  This is a work of <b>fiction</b>.  It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions.  It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured.  No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story:  it is solely for entertainment.  And again, it is entirely <b>fictional</b>, i.e. <b>not true</b>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	fire on the left

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here at LJ](http://americanleaguer.livejournal.com/23603.html). Some minor changes have been made to this version, mostly in the form of small edits. There have been no major alterations (much as it kills me to not rewrite whole chunks of this).
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of **fiction**. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely **fictional** , i.e. **not true**.

Zumaya wakes up to the smell of burning. He blinks and their couch asserts itself beneath his face, nubbly fabric pattern-pressed into his cheek. He groans and raises his head, fuzzy at the edges. He's pretty sure he can hear someone singing, horribly off-key.

Things snap back into place and the voice in the kitchen resolves itself into Granderson entertaining himself while blackening toast or somehow turning on the coffee maker without a filter, something like that. Granderson has an enthusiasm for cooking and absolutely no aptitude whatsoever for it.

Zumaya stretches his back as best he can, staggering up to collapse at the kitchen table. Granderson is busily laying slices of an ashy black substance on a plate in what he probably thinks is an appetizing arrangement. Zumaya eyes it nervously. It might have been toast at one point in its existence, but then again it might have been something else entirely.

"Sleep well?" Granderson asks, setting the plate down on the table and depositing a stick of butter next to it with a flourish. Zumaya grunts. Their couch is narrow and great for keeping you on the edge of your seat for a stimulating Xbox game, but it's nearly impossible to get a good night's sleep on the thing. They had picked it out because it was a violently bright shade of orange that reminded them of their home ballpark and that the salesman had assured them was the height of cool. Dumb, but a bright orange couch is rare enough, can't go on regretting it.

Cracking his neck and poking unenthusiastically at the probable toast to make sure it isn't going to come to life and kill him, he takes a moment to miss his mother, something he does at least half of every day, and another moment to mentally remind himself why so many of the guys are married. Picking out furniture, yeah. That must be one of the perks. Also: edible toast.

"Hadda leave me sleepin' on the couch, huh?" He narrows his eyes at Granderson, who grins impishly and starts slathering butter on one slice. The butter knife causes an entire layer of the stuff to crumble off as it passes over, making his plate look like the bottom grate of a fireplace. "What if I gotta pitch today, huh? All sore all over, and I'm givin' up runs left and right. S'all your fault, man."

Granderson's grin widens. "Sorry Zoom, but there's no way I was gonna carry you to your room."

Zumaya rolls his eyes and tilts his chair back on two legs so he can reach a banana on the countertop behind him. The banana, at least, should be safe. "Not sayin' _carry_ me, jeez. Y'coulda just poked me or somethin'."

"You were out like a light," Granderson says, pointing at Zumaya with the butter knife. "Out like a shitty batter on a high fastball. Out like Verlander's dreams of bein' a body builder. Out like, uh, like Pudge wishes he was."

Zumaya has to struggle to not spray the table with half-chewed banana as he bursts into unavoidable laughter. He's already mapping out, in his mind, the stretches he'll have to do to get himself in playing shape by game time, where he and Granderson and Verlander will go to hang out after the game ends, and he's moved on from the brief moment of wistfulness to a place where he doesn't miss anything at all.

\---

Zumaya calls his mother after the game. It's pretty loud in the clubhouse and there's a snapping and squealing coming from the showers that makes it sound like Monroe has gotten a wet towel worked up into a pretty sharp rattail, but Zumaya's real good at tuning the team out when he's on the phone with his mother. He's had a lot of practice.

It used to be a funny thing, when he first came up. Ha ha, look at the rookie pitcher, callin' his momma five times a day. Then they saw him pitch, 100 miles per hour, fastball so heavy in the glove that even Pudge had to whistle, and Pudge had caught everything the game of baseball allowed to be thrown. They saw him blow past opposing teams and set masked umpire heads to shaking, _how's a guy supposed to call somethin' comin' at him that fast?_ They saw him get used to being up with the big club, stop being bright-eyed and scared around the veterans, coming into his own. And he still called home five times a day.

He still gets looks, sometimes, from the guys. Most of them don't talk to their wives or kids this often, let alone their mothers. It's not the norm in baseball. It just isn't generally done.

Zumaya doesn't give a shit. He's always called his mother five times a day, and it doesn't matter where he is, or what he's doing, or if he's playing ball or bagging groceries in some shitty little downtown shop. He's going to call his mother five times a day so long as he can afford it. Baseball's good that way. So long as he's not a complete idiot, he'll pretty much always be able to afford phone calls. He's not making a lot yet, of course, but if he can stay unhurt, it'll come. Everyone thinks so. He's not too worried.

\---

Sometimes his mother calls him, like when he's pitched two perfect innings to close out a one-run game, and he's plastered all over the late-night Sportscenter, anchors marveling over his stuff. He's out with the guys, wedged into the awkward point of a corner booth at a loud, dark bar, and he can feel his phone vibrate in his pocket. He digs it out, shoves it up against the side of his face, stuffs his fingers into his other ear to dull the noise.

Granderson, jammed up against his right side, ignores him with an ease borne of much practice. Crushed into his left side, though, is Verlander, rookie pitcher and one of the best on the team, and Verlander looks around curiously to see who Zumaya is talking to, assuming teammate or friend but clearly hoping for hot girls.

Zumaya is, of course, speaking in Spanish, listening to his mother tell him what the Sportscenter guys had to say about his fastball, telling her details about the game. Verlander watches with hopeful interest until Granderson looks around, rolls his eyes, and leans across Zumaya's lap, mock-whispering, " _Madre_."

"You're kiddin'," Verlander mutters, doubtfully flicking his eyes at Zumaya's phone. "He's talking to his _mom_ in the middle of a bar?"

Pudge, wedged into Verlander's other side, overhears and leans in. "He'd talk to his madre if she called while he was fuckin' a groupie." Pudge makes obscene thrusting motions of his hips, pumping with his arms, and the rest of the table bursts out laughing. Zumaya cups a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and swears at Pudge, who grins hugely and jerks his hips some more, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and squealing, "Ay ay ay, sì, sì mama, usted es mi mama grande, ay ay ay."

Zumaya makes a movement like he's going to crawl over Verlander and drag Pudge under the table to beat him senseless. Granderson wrinkles his nose, glances sidelong at Zumaya, and shouts, "Aw whatever Pudge, don't be actin' like you wanna do his momma, we all know it's his poppa you'd be after." He screws up his face and in a fair approximation of Pudge's voice yelps, "Ay, ay, sì papi, give it to me papi, all night long, yo quiero big mehican dick."

The table erupts in fresh laughter, Pudge good-naturedly chuckling with the rest of them. Zumaya glares for another second before letting a mollified smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. He mouths, "Not Mexican," at Granderson, who throws up his hands and raises his eyes to the heavens. Zumaya winks to show he's not offended, sits back in the booth and takes his hand from the phone, apologizes to his mother for the interruption, and listens to her tell him about how his little sister had clapped for sheer joy when she saw him get that last strikeout.

\---

Two weeks before they're scheduled to go to Chicago to play the White Sox, people start calling Granderson for tickets. He's from Chicago, and as near as Zumaya can tell, every single living family member of his wants to go to at least one game of the series, along with every person he was even a passing acquaintance of back in school. Their apartment phone and Granderson's cell phone both ring constantly. Granderson starts taking the phone off the hook and turning off his cell at 3 am so they can get some sleep, because otherwise both would ring on through the night.

He's not planning on having any family come during this series, so Zumaya gives Granderson his assigned tickets for all three games. Granderson thanks him profusely and bakes a cake to show his appreciation. He puts in way too much sugar and too many eggs, so it's sticky and sickly sweet and doesn't hold its shape well, but Zumaya eats it anyways because the frosting is good and he's gotten, over the course of a couple months, kind of horribly used to Granderson's cooking.

In the clubhouse he tells Verlander about all the phone calls, how he's taken to picking up the phone and saying, "Hello, ticket office," as a joke. Verlander snorts and calls him a dork, gets up and offers Granderson all of his tickets. Granderson drags him back over to Zumaya and tells them how much this means to his family, and they totally don't have to give up their tickets, and he seriously appreciates it, and Verlander's got a cake due to him.

Verlander, not at all used to Granderson's cooking and reasonably terrified of it, assures him that it's fine, he's not a big cake guy anyways, and he probably wasn't going to use the tickets, may as well give them to someone who will, no big. Granderson hugs them both and runs off to go find his socks. Verlander turns to Zumaya and silently pantomimes intense relief, as though a baking disaster has just been narrowly averted. So far as Verlander's stomach is concerned, this is exactly what has happened.

Zumaya laughs freely and punches Verlander lightly in the side (not like he's pitching today). "And you're callin' _me_ a dork?"

Verlander crumples to the ground, rolling around theatrically. "Yes," he groans. "Huge dork. Huge, cruel, evil dork."

"'Least I didn't insist he bake you a cake. Now _that_ , that woulda been evil."

Verlander stops rolling and eyes him with alarm from the floor. "You. You wouldn't do that. Right?"

The look on Verlander's face is hysterical and Zumaya accordingly bursts out laughing again. Leyland stomps by, already in his cleats, and gives Verlander a dirty look. "Sorry Coach," Verlander says politely, sprawled on the carpet, "but Joel here just introduced my left ribcage to his knuckles, and wouldn't you know it but the ol' ribcage prefers thinking about its introduction down here."

Leyland moves his eyes to Zumaya without moving any other part of his face or body. "You punchin' starting pitchers?" he growls menacingly. Zumaya holds his hands up, palms out, all innocence.

"No sir. I jus' tapped him. It's hardly my fault he's such a scrawny stick he can't stand up to a friendly tap."

Verlander sits up, indignant. "Scrawny stick? Scrawny stick? I am a stick of immense brawn, thank you very much."

Zumaya cackles and Leyland makes a noise of disgust, shaking his head and stomping away, already pulling the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and muttering about how the damn kids will be the death of him yet.

\---

In Chicago, it takes 20 minutes for Zumaya to get bored in his hotel room. He rifles through the mini bar and determines there's nothing special in there. He looks in all the drawers to see if there's something more exciting than the Bible left in one of them (there isn't). He draws an obscene stick figure sketch on the complimentary pad of paper with the complimentary hotel pen. Then he bounces on the bed and plays catch with himself, tossing his cell phone into the air. He already called his mother when the plane landed.

He tries calling Granderson but Granderson is already out with his family or his friends or his old girlfriend from high school or who knows what and isn't picking up his phone. He toys with the idea of calling his mother again for a few minutes. Instead he flips open his cell phone, scrolls through his address book until he gets to the 'S' section and calls the number with the header 'SkinnyFuckV', which is Verlander (as distinguished from 'SkinnyFuckW', which is Jamie Walker, whom he has not called once in his life but whose number he has anyways, and 'LittleFuckZ', which is his sister).

Verlander picks up on the first ring and is knocking on Zumaya's door before he can hang up. He opens the door and Verlander hurls himself dramatically into the room, flopping down on the bed. "I'm _bored_ ," he announces in ominous tones. "Where are the hot chicks?"

"Probably all with Granderson," Zumaya mutters, sitting down on the bed and dropping a pillow on Verlander's face.

"All at once?" Verlander sighs, lifting the pillow off his face and smacking Zumaya in the back of the skull with it before tucking it under his own head. "What a scene. That lucky little bastard."

"Who're you to be callin' anyone 'little'?"

"Cram it," Verlander says, but without rancor.

Zumaya rolls up one sleeve and flexes his bicep, gesturing at it with his other hand. He's not that muscular, not really, but he's much bigger than Verlander, and that makes it impressive enough. "Now this is a man, see."

Verlander golf claps. "Lovely. And what does that make me?"

Zumaya clears his throat and adopts a tuneful falsetto. "Not yet a girl... not quiiiiite a woooomaaaannn..."

"You sing like Walker," Verlander accuses, and Zumaya stops to glare balefully at him. It's a harsh accusation. "But _speaking_ of women..."

"Told you. Granderson's got 'em all."

"But I'm sexier than he is," Verlander pouts, which in Zumaya's opinion immediately disproves his point. "And I'm starting tomorrow, so get me some bitches, bitch."

"Who cares if you're startin' tomorrow?"

"Starting pitchers get whatever they want before a start. It's like pregnant women or something. It's like, a baseball law."

"Well, I could be pitching every day," Zumaya counters reasonably, leaning back against the headboard. "So I should get bitches every day."

"Nuh uh. Starters are way more important." Verlander scoots his head off the back of the pillow so it curves his neck up and he's looking at Zumaya upside-down, his chin in the air, looking very much more goofy than deeply important. "It takes you like 8 games to do what I do in one."

Zumaya smirks at him. "You couldn't be a closer if you tried. You need 8 innin's to work through all your mistakes and shit. You couldn't handle the pressure of havin' to throw a perfect innin' every time out. No way."

"You're not the closer," Verlander points out, just to be difficult. "Jonesy is."

"Whatever. He's old. He'll retire soon." Zumaya gestures vaguely to indicate the eventuality of Todd Jones' departure from the team. The poor guy has a _mustache_ , for fuck's sake. No one grows just mustaches anymore, it isn't cool at all. He's done for, so far as Zumaya is concerned, it's only a matter of time. "And then I'll be the closer. I'll totally kick way more ass than you. I'll be better than that fuckin', whatever, that fuckin' Papelbon."

"Papelbon's a little bitch," Verlander agrees. " _Speaking_ of bitches..."

"What, you wanna fuck Papelbon?"

"I almost don't care at this point, so long as it's warm and breathing and has holes." Verlander thinks that over momentarily and makes a face, sticking out his tongue. "Yeah, never mind, gross. That would include, like, dogs and cows and shit. Forget I said that."

"Watch what you do with that thing," Zumaya warns, flicking Verlander's outstretched tongue with a finger. "And I'll never forget it. Cowfucker."

Verlander sticks out his tongue even farther, talking around it. "Yea I gueth a elethant ne'er thorgets. An what you gonna do, ite it?"

Zumaya's really bored. There's nothing at all to do except sit here and banter back and forth with Verlander like usual, like they've done a thousand times before. Nothing new happens and he just wants to get through the night, keep going so he doesn't die of boredom before he falls asleep, so they can wake up the next morning and Verlander can pitch and Zumaya can maybe pitch and they can hopefully win.

He's bored, and that's probably why he leans down, why he _does_ bite Verlander's tongue, why when Verlander's mouth drops open in surprise he leans in and covers the shocked O with his own lips.

There's dead silence when he sits back up. Verlander's staring at him with huge, startled eyes, and Zumaya licks his lips nervously. It's a little scary how fast the atmosphere in the room changed. He coughs, and Verlander starts, a body-sized twitch.

"Is. Is that gonna happen again?" He's staring at Zumaya as though he's afraid that if he closes his eyes for a second Zumaya's going to pull out a knife or something and gut him.

Zumaya can't think of anything to say. He looks down at the bed and picks at a stray thread in the sheets, thinking that the team is paying too much for this place to have the sheets be crappy like this. He risks a look back up and Verlander is still staring at him warily.

"Dunno," he mumbles, dropping his eyes to the sheet again. "Um. Do you want it to?"

There's another longish pause during which Zumaya picks a small hole in the sheet, and Verlander chews on his lower lip. "I dunno," he finally says, narrowing his eyes and sharpening his gaze. "Do. Do you want it to?"

"I dunno either," Zumaya admits. He looks over and Verlander has gone back to chewing on his lower lip. He stares without trying to look like he's staring. Verlander chews on his lip all the time, whenever he's thinking about something. It's a habit Zumaya had noticed but never really paid attention to before. He's paying attention to it now, though. He's got the insane desire to pry Verlander's teeth off his lip with his own, and it's freaking him out in about 8 separate ways.

"Guess we'll never know unless we try it," Verlander announces, voice airy and forced. "Uh. Again."

Zumaya nods emphatically. "Right. Definitely." He slides forward so that when Verlander sits up they're facing each other. He's got no idea where to go from there, though. Verlander awkwardly puts a hand on his shoulder and Zumaya even more awkwardly cups a palm around the side of Verlander's face. It's early evening and Verlander has the stubble of a shadowy beard growing. Zumaya can feel it under his hand and he adds a 9th variety of freaking out. "Er. So. Uh."

"Yeah," Verlander says, simultaneously trying to boldly look Zumaya in the face and completely avoid his eyes, and failing somewhat at both. "Right, well, I guess we just..."

He leans forward a little, his hand on Zumaya's shoulder tensing. Zumaya leans in to meet him and there's an uncomfortable moment where they're kind of pressing their lips together and neither one of them wants to be the one to open his mouth first and implicitly admit they're actually doing this. Zumaya can feel Verlander's hand shaking on his shoulder and Verlander's cheek twitching under his fingers and figures, fuck it. He parts his lips and gently teases at Verlander's mouth with his tongue until Verlander takes a deep breath through his nose and lets Zumaya in.

Granderson calls Zumaya's phone at 2 am. It turns out he _does_ have a lot of girls with him, and they'd just _love_ to meet some more nice young ballplayers, so if Zumaya gets the message please call back and a good time is guaranteed.

But by then Zumaya is crouched at the end of the bed with Verlander's dick in his mouth and his hand on Verlander's stomach to remind him to not thrash around too much, and Zumaya can't even hear the tinny buzzing ring of his phone where it lies on the floor, and it's too little, too late.

\---

Zumaya goes two and a half innings in a day game at home and doesn't get the save, but only because the offense had spotted them a six run lead. It's Verlander's game that he finished, though, and in the clubhouse afterward Verlander jumps on his back, sloppily plants a kiss on the top of his head, and leaps back off to head to the showers. Everyone laughs, even Leyland, and Pudge gives him an approving thumbs up.

"Very funny," he growls at Pudge and feints in his direction. Pudge leaps backwards, grabbing Fernando Rodney around the waist and pulling him in between himself and Zumaya. Rodney rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest, shoving his chin out so his pointed goatee bristles. Zumaya contents himself with sticking his tongue out at Pudge and stalks off to shove his gear into his locker.

When they get back to their apartment it's still too early to really go out for the night yet, so Granderson sets himself up at the kitchen table with a small pile of papers and tries to split their rent and utility bills for the month in an orderly way. He's got the papers spread out and is pecking at a little calculator with a pencil in the corner of his mouth when Zumaya comes in, an hour later, to see what there is to drink in the fridge.

"I hate paying bills," he says, popping the top on a can of Coke and leaning on the counter. Granderson looks around and takes the pencil out of his mouth.

"How come? I always work 'em out, all you gotta do is write your check."

Zumaya frowns at his soda. "I dunno. I just hate the idea of it. It's like, too adult and shit. And it feels weird payin' for, like, shelter. Somethin' like that."

Granderson snorts and turns back to the calculator. "What, you want me to pay it for you? Dream on, cheapskate."

"I'd pay you back in somethin' else," Zumaya says, thinking. "Like. Beer. Or popcorn. Or blowjobs."

"Gross!" Granderson laughs, turns back around and throws a wadded-up piece of paper at him. "Stay away from my dick, man."

"You'd like it." Zumaya leers at Granderson, who pretends to gag onto the floor.

"Take your rainbow ass out and go gay up some other dude, I'm tryin' to keep us from gettin' evicted here." Granderson makes like he's going to throw the calculator at Zumaya, who leers at him again with impunity because he knows Granderson won't actually throw it. They don't have another calculator.

Zumaya wanders out of the room with his soda and flips open his phone, pages through his address book to 'S'. Granderson thinks Zumaya was just joking, of course. Well, Granderson _did_ tell him to go gay up some other dude, and Zumaya always tries to be an accommodating roommate.

\---

They're thinking majors but not there yet, still dreaming of roomy private airplanes in the aisles of cramped buses. It's 2005, and the All Star game is in Detroit. Zumaya's got a brand new bright orange jersey that looks a little ridiculous, but Verlander's got the same one, so he feels OK about it. They've both been selected to the Futures game, where minor league kids, best of the best, are brought in to play before a crowd thirsting for Alex Rodriguez and David Ortiz.

The clubhouse in Comerica is exactly as great as they'd imagined it. Verlander says he thinks it's bigger than the entire ballpark back down in Toledo, which Zumaya kind of doubts, but he can get changed without knocking elbows with half the team, unparalleled luxury, so maybe Verlander's right. They stand in the dugout, which is also, Verlander claims, bigger than their entire triple-A field. The ballpark is full, all these people here just to watch them play, at least for today, until the real pros show up for their game tomorrow.

"We'll have this next year," Verlander says, confident, nodding to himself, sure thing.

"Right. This." Zumaya squints skeptically into the stands. "Have they even _had_ a sell-out this year? And anyhow, we prob'ly won't, you'll get called up and I won't, or someone'll get traded."

"They'll sell out when we're up and makin' the team good." Verlander blows a large bubble in his gum and they both pause to admire it before it collapses under its own size. He sticks out his tongue and corrals the gum back into his mouth so he can snap it, which Zumaya hates, and Verlander only does because he knows it drives Zumaya nuts.

"Anyhow," he adds, "how come you gotta be such a downer? We'll both be up next year. We'll be the best one-two pitchin' punch in the majors."

Zumaya looks at Verlander out of the corner of his eye and shakes his head. He can't help but smile, though. He rests his forearms on the padded dugout railing and tries to imagine playing here almost every day. "One-two, huh? What 'bout Bonderman?"

"He can be the best number three starter in baseball. We'll do it. Wouldn't be in the Futures game if we didn't have a _future_ ," Verlander adds, as though every prospect here is a sure thing.

"They might want me in the bullpen," Zumaya admits, something the coaches had just begun telling him, don't fall in love with starting, kid. "I been workin' on that knucklecurve, you know, like Mussina's got. But if I don't get it quick, I don't think I got enough pitches to do, you know, up here."

Verlander waves this off with airy unconcern. "So we'll be the best starter-closer duo in baseball. Whatever. Point's the same." He blows another giant bubble, takes the gum out of his mouth and sticks the small, chewed up wad on the hat of one of their teammates as he walks by, some big kid from the Braves, so that the huge pink bubble wobbles unsteadily around at the top of his cap. Zumaya watches the kid continue on down the length of the dugout, oblivious. It's an old trick, gum on hats since the stuff was brought into the majors. Several other players are snickering and Verlander is looking immensely pleased with himself.

"You're crazy," Zumaya says. "I ain't never closin' in this city. We got Farnsworth, we got Ugie, we got Percy. That's three closers right there, man, and what's-his-name, Fernando, I bet he can close too if he's gotta, they don't hardly need no one else in the bullpen period with all that, let alone another closer."

"Just you wait and see. It'll happen."

"Three closers, man. Three!"

Verlander claps Zumaya on the shoulder and laughs. "It'll happen, man. I don't know how, but it'll happen. We're gonna play together a long time. It's just too perfect to not happen."

"Well I don't know how I'm gonna jump over three damn good closers even if I ever get called up here." Verlander's hand is still on Zumaya's shoulder and it's a solid, warm grip, like one of the bronzed statues out in center field had come down and patted him on the back.

"It'll happen," Verlander repeats. "Just has to." Zumaya turns his head to look at him full on and Verlander grins, broad and cocksure. Zumaya grins back. He still doesn't see how Verlander's crazy dreams would ever come true, but they're playing together for now, in what he's firmly convinced is the most beautiful ballpark in baseball, and hey, who knows, maybe. Just maybe.

\---

With a one run lead, Zumaya comes out to pitch the 8th inning. He sets down the side, one-two-three, audible collective gasps in the crowd when he hits triple digits, so he doesn't even have to look at the radar readings. Pudge pats his back as they run back into the dugout and tells Leyland that the fastball has "good pop," meaning it's going so hard today that the umpire can hear it clearly popping when it hits the pocket of Pudge's glove square. Leyland stares, sphinx-like, out at the homeplate umpire for a second before inclining his head ever so slightly towards Zumaya and telling him he's going out for the 9th.

Zumaya drops onto the bench and carefully wraps a towel around his pitching arm, keeping the joints as warm and loose as possible. Granderson vaults into the space next to him, making Andy Van Slyke, who had been sitting there taping a bat handle, jump about a foot off his seat and then glare. Granderson ignores him and stretches his legs out far in front of him, high blue socks making them look a mile long.

"Hey, we goin' out tonight?" he asks, modulating his voice low so the coaches won't hear.

"If we win." Zumaya closes his eyes and tips his head back. He visualizes the next three batters he'll have to face and tries to remember what pitches they feast on. Joe Mauer. Good breaking ball hitter. Blow him away with the fastball. Michael Cuddyer. Middle zone hitter, pitch him inside. Justin Morneau. Morneau. Hmm.

"Morneau has no eye, he'll just sit on your fastball and be fucked if you throw him any offspeed stuff," Verlander says, voice close at hand. Zumaya opens his eyes and Verlander has somehow wedged himself onto the bench next to Granderson. Van Slyke is still taping the bat, aggressively handling it as though he'd like to beat some respect into a rookie or two, and it's clear he's had to move down to make room.

"Fastball's what's workin' today," Zumaya points out. There's no use in asking how Verlander knew what he was thinking. It's probably not that hard to figure out.

"He'll sit on it," Verlander insists. "Throw him that ol' knucklecurve."

"Don't got no knucklecurve."

"Sure you do," Granderson pipes up, shoving back Verlander, who had been leaning over his lap. "I saw you practicing the grip in front of the TV last night."

Zumaya shoots him an annoyed look. He doesn't really have a knucklecurve. If he did, that would be an extra pitch and he'd be starting. He _wishes_ he had a knucklecurve and he's been trying to develop one for a year and a half now, it's getting there, he can feel it sometimes, the knowledge is there at his fingertips, he just can't access it all the time. Not yet.

Granderson laughs at his expression. "Yeah, whatever, you can throw it for strikes if you really want to. C'mon. Then we can go to the bar after."

"If you get him out on it, I'm buyin'," Verlander offers, _he_ has a knucklecurve, of course he does, that's how he got here, 'though he's trying to convert it into a regular curveball now. But he's still thirsting for it, in love with the dipping and diving and crazycontrolleduncontrolled nature of the pitch, he wants to see it and is willing to see it from Zumaya. Willing it into Zumaya.

Willing to pay for it in beer and, well, shit, that just isn't something Zumaya can turn down.

He goes back out for the 9th, aware of Leyland watching him closely from the top step of the dugout, poised to call for help at the first sign of any trouble. Mauer and Cuddyer both make outs harmlessly, bats swinging too far in front of his fastball in an attempt to catch up to it. Morneau digs in, waving his bat lightly, bright blonde hair curling out the bottom of his batting helmet. Zumaya can almost see his batting average, well over .300, shining in imagined neon on the front of his jersey.

Pudge puts one finger down, framed in the white of his crouching thighs. Fastball. Zumaya shakes his head. Pudge puts one finger down again and waggles it for emphasis. Zumaya shakes his head again, and Pudge half-stands in his crouch, annoyed.

Morneau steps out of the batter's box and looks down to adjust his gloves, assuming Pudge is walking out to the mound. While Morneau's looking away Zumaya catches Pudge's eye and mimes the grip of a knucklecurve. Pudge's face slackens in surprise behind his mask and he shakes his head. Zumaya stares blankly back in until Pudge sets his jaw and drops back down into his crouch, causing Morneau to look up and hurry back into the box, dirt clods skittering away from his cleats.

The knucklecurve floats in on a big, wide arc, dancing slightly in the pockets of air its relative lack of spin creates as it approaches the plate. Morneau has no idea what he's looking at, Zumaya can tell right away, his bat coming around wildly and connecting far down on the underside of the ball.

Granderson springs to life in center field, darting forward and planting himself firmly on the grass. Zumaya watches him, fist clenched preemptively, punching into the air when the ball drops neatly into Granderson's waiting glove.

Pudge races towards him and leaps at his chest, screaming at him in English and Spanish, calling him a crazy _culo_ and pounding him about the shoulders. The crowd, which has been on its collective feet the entire time, is only just now registering with Zumaya, people yelling wildly in the stands. Granderson hits him from the side in a whirlwind of arms and legs and guys are leaping over the dugout rail to run out onto the field. Morneau is still standing at homeplate, bat held limply in one hand, wondering what the fuck that pitch had been.

It's not a playoff game, but it's big, they've got the series and the lead in the division and the best record in baseball, no one can touch them, sleek Tiger cats dancing high in the sky where the air is rarefied and not even pinstripes can breathe this year.

Zumaya catches Verlander's eye through the scrum of joyous teammates. He's going to drink Verlander out of pocket tonight, Verlander can see it in his eyes, and there's not an ounce of regret in there, nothing but delight reflecting back.

\---

They both get ridiculously, stupidly drunk. Well, of course Zumaya can't waste an opportunity to drink on Verlander's dollar, and Verlander can't let Zumaya outpace him. Granderson paces them both and passes out, slumping down on folded arms until he's asleep on the sticky bartop, drooling slightly onto his wrists.

"Need to get him home," Zumaya giggles, looking at the big clock over the bar and seeing three, slightly overlapped. "Coach'd be. So pissed. If we jus' left him."

Verlander giggles back and helps him pry Granderson up, the both of them levering their arms under his and throwing them across their backs, so he's held up between them, dangling like the statues of Jesus Zumaya used to see when he would go to church back home with his mother.

Somehow they get him out onto the sidewalk and, miracle of miracles, a rare cab is driving by, circling the Detroit streets warily. Zumaya nods at Verlander, he should go wave it down, because he's white and this late at night a cabbie in Detroit will not stop for anyone unless they're white and obviously well-off, not anyone who actually lives in Detroit, not anyone who would actually need a cab if they weren't too drunk to drive. A stocky Hispanic guy with an unconscious black guy draped across his shoulders is unlikely to catch a cab, this time, this place. Zumaya is used to it.

The cab rolls up next to Verlander, who leans down and gives the cabbie an address before waving Zumaya over. He heaves Granderson into the back seat and immediately slides in to keep him propped more or less upright against the far door. Verlander squeezes in next to him and mutters, "I jus' told him to go to your place, OK?"

Zumaya nods. Two of them live there and Verlander lives all off by his lonesome, all by his own self, much more sense in having the cab stop at one place and they can all just crash there and it'll be cool because everything is cool.

They somehow manage to get Granderson out of the cab, and the cabbie paid, and the steps to their building navigated. Granderson is unceremoniously tipped into his bed, face down so he's less likely to choke if he throws up, because Verlander thinks of things like that, the sort of valuable knowledge Zumaya guesses he probably learned in college.

Head spinning, apartment spinning, both or either, he can't tell, Zumaya stumbles into his room and falls onto his bed, arms spread and eyes closed. Verlander bellyflops on top of him, giggling and stupidly happy. They wriggle and squirm, Verlander just the sort of warm, live armful that Zumaya thinks he could get used to having, the flat planes of shoulder blades and narrow taper of waist already imprinting themselves under his fingernails.

They both squirm out of their pants but not their boxers, laughing and saying, "Shhhh," to one another in admonitory terms louder than any other noises they're making, rubbing and getting off without even getting naked, about all they can manage before the alcohol finally hits. Verlander falls asleep first, right arm and leg slung over Zumaya's chest and hip.

Zumaya nuzzles at his shoulder. Verlander smells like beer, tastes like salt, feels like a heated stone, smelltastesensation summing up the season so far, and that's comforting enough to send Zumaya drifting into fadeout black.

\---

When he's got his glove on, the tattoos on Zumaya's left arm become part of his uniform. The black leather covering his hand leads up into black flames, outlined, crawling up his wrist, more intricate designs on the inside of his forearm. But it's the flames everyone notices, sharp and graphic, as much his signature as the fiery fastball that comes from his other hand.

Without his glove his hand looks a little empty, though. The flames occupy a space between glove and sleeve and there's an unbalance without everything in place. Zumaya's left hand always feels a little empty without a glove on anyways, so he figures it's a good kind of tattoo to have.

Verlander is absolutely fascinated by his tattoos. Being in bed with him should be weird, probably, would be for sure if they were just lying there staring at the ceiling, but they never are. Sleeping, or better things, usually, but sometimes, after, Verlander likes to just fit himself into Zumaya's right side and rest his chin on Zumaya's chest. Zumaya is supposed to rest his left arm on his stomach in front of Verlander's face, so Verlander can hold it and look at it and run his fingers over the marks inked there. It always makes him smile, the intent look on Verlander's face, each and every time like he's never seen the damn things before.

"Did it hurt?"

"Yeah. Sure. But not so bad I wouldn't get another."

Verlander makes a _hmm_ ing noise, fingertip tracing the line of the flames, up, down, gentle curve. It tickles a little and Zumaya has to curl his hand into a fist to keep his arm still.

"Why flames?"

"'Coz that's what I throw."

"But. Not your throwing arm."

"Right." Zumaya tenses his fist and flexes his forearm to make the shapes ripple, to make Verlander lick his lips. "Didn't seem like a great idea to get tattoos on my throwin' arm. I mean, what if it got infected or sore or somethin'? 'Sides which, that arm kinda speaks for itself."

"Only when it's pitching."

Zumaya smirks and extricates his right arm from where it had been pressed under Verlander. He tugs at Verlander to get him to roll up onto his side and pets the long line of him, hand coming to rest on his hip, thumb rubbing lazy circles on the sharp point of his pelvis, fingers fanning out over the slight curve of Verlander's ass. Verlander closes his hand around Zumaya's left forearm, the pale peach of his fingers showing up stark against the smooth brown and inky black.

"Think it does OK when it ain't pitchin'," Zumaya mutters, pleased with the look on Verlander's face and the warm press of his body. Verlander murmurs in assent and rubs up against Zumaya's leg, lazily and without any particular urgency. He shifts his fingers around the flames and they always look a little empty without a glove to anchor them, but they're pretty close to complete, pretty close to perfect, with Verlander making up the difference.

\---

There are no secrets between Zumaya and his mother. Why should there be? The woman gave birth to him, gave him life, raised him up. Doesn't she deserve to know every detail of the life she created? He's never understood the guys who were always hiding things from their mothers, weaving elaborate lies.

He's not sure how to get this one across, though. Hi mom. Yes, I'm good. So I'm seeing someone. Yes, very nice. Well, I don't think you'd call him pretty. Him. Yeah. Actually, my bestfriendfellowpitcherteammate.

Right.

Hi mom. Yes, I'm good. You know how you're always asking who I'm seeing these days and I always say 'No one long-term?' and you always sigh all disappointed-like? Well I'm seeing someone now. Yes. Well, I don't know, but I hope it's long-term. Well I really like him. Yes. Him.

Hi mom. Yes, I'm good. In fact I'm better than good. Why? Well, I'm sleeping with my best friend. Well, you know Justin, right? No. Not Justine. Justin.

Hi mom. Yes, I'm good. You'll never guess what I was doing the other night. Well yeah, we were at the bar. But then we came home, and one thing led to another, and I ended up rubbing up against my best buddy until I came because I was too drunk to do anything else and it was still the best sex I'd had in years and I want to do it again and I want to do more and I don't know what he wants and I'm terrified of Granderson finding out and I'm terrified of the teamgodforbidLeyland finding out and I don't know what to do.

Hi mom. Yes, I'm good. I'm also kinda gay.

Mom?

You there, mom?

Yeah.

\---

It's kind of a running joke between them, what will Zumaya do if his mother calls while he and Verlander are in the middle of... well, of something. It hasn't happened yet, _gracias a dios_ , but they do stuff at any hour, it's certainly possible. Or as Verlander says, only a matter of time.

"You answer the phone any other time," Verlander needles. "C'mon. Say she called right... now..." and Verlander's got his hand wrapped, teasingly light, around Zumaya's balls, he _knows_ that drives Zumaya crazy, almost as crazy as when he snaps his gum, but in a definitely different way.

Zumaya makes a low noise and throws his head back but doesn't otherwise thrash, not with Verlander's hand there. It's a subtle form of bondage, he knows it, Verlander knows it, and they're both getting off on it.

"Shit. She ain't callin' right now. Cut it out."

"But what if she _did_? Would you sit up," a gentle squeeze, "tell me to shove over," massaging with just his fingertips, "pick up that phone and talk to your momma?"

"Shiiiiiit," Zumaya moans. "Don't. Fuckin' know. But don't stop that."

Verlander smiles triumphantly. "Yeah. That's right. I'm the only thing in the whole fuckin' world you'd let your mom go to voicemail for."

"Can we please not talk about my mom when you got a vice grip on my balls?"

"This ain't a vice grip. You want a vice grip?"

Zumaya pleads, begs, wants it so bad he almost doesn't want it, but all in vain. Verlander squeezes and tugs and Zumaya comes so hard he almost blacks out. Almost misses Verlander taking his limp hand, forming it around his dick, jerking himself off into Zumaya's palm. Almost, but not quite.

"Whazzamatter?" he asks, fuzzy. "Can't get off with your own hand no more?"

"Shut up," Verlander suggests, pink at the ears and working himself faster into Zumaya's hand.

Zumaya looks down. It's his left hand that Verlander's making use of. Of course. The arm with the flames.

"You got a serious fuckin' tattoo kink," he mutters, enjoying the way Verlander's face reddens further, even as he sees the retort coming a mile away.

"That's right. And if you don't get your fingers into it, I'm gonna take my tattoo kink and go fuck my way through a biker bar."

"No you won't. Bikers are mostly white dudes, I _know_ you got serious kink for the brown."

"Oh fuck," Verlander groans, squeezing his eyes shut. "Don't make me think racist shit when I'm trying to come."

Zumaya snickers and finally obliges Verlander, tightening his fingers and rolling them up and down. It doesn't take very long before Verlander collapses against him with another loud groan. Zumaya licks his fingers clean and Verlander groans again.

"Kinky fucker," Zumaya mutters, but with a smile.

"M'not kinky," Verlander insists. Zumaya raises an eyebrow. "Not. I don't have a tattoo kink. I don't have a fuckin', a fuckin' _brown_ kink."

Zumaya coughs skeptically and Verlander yawns, tugging Zumaya's tattooed arm over his stomach, his preferred way to sleep.

"Ain't kinky," he says, sleepy and slow, fading out. "If I got any kinda kink it's just a, a you kink. Not, ink, not, no color. Not even guys. Just you."

\---

Granderson is humming tunelessly to himself, poking something in a pot on the stove. Zumaya sits at the kitchen table with his feet kicked up on it, playing his favorite mental game: animal, vegetable, or mineral? He can always entertain himself for at least an hour, trying to guess which of the three are in whatever Granderson's brewing up.

This is a tough one, though, not at all obvious, so eventually he asks, "Hey, whatcha cookin' good lookin'?"

"Yer mom," Granderson grumbles. Ah. Animal, then. Probably chicken, or at least partially chicken. It's harder for Granderson to screw up chicken so badly that it'll take them out of games with stomach ailments, so if he's cooking any kind of meat, it's usually that.

They sit in companionable quiet, the only sounds the bubbling of the pot contents and the faint humming that is Granderson's personal cooking zen-place music.

Granderson twists a knob on the stove and lowers the heat, bringing the pot down to a light simmer. He stares into it for a second, like he's steeling himself for something, before he turns and looks at a spot on the wall.

"I was wondering," he says, a little nervous-sounding, "if you wouldn't mind swinging by the park later and throwing some live BP to me."

Zumaya frowns. He's not really supposed to throw outside of team supervision, not with his arm. And besides. "How the fuck would we get into the park?"

"Gotta keyring. Swiped it from the trainer's office."

It's not hard to know what this is about. Granderson hasn't been hitting well, not at all, lately. It's like he's overthinking every pitch and by the time he's got it processed, it's gone past him. Leyland's been very patient with him so far, but most of them know that if he'd been on any one of the majority of other major league teams, he would've been sent down already for someone with a hotter bat. Granderson knows it as well as any of them and tries harder because of it, which means he's pressing at the plate, which means he's actually doing worse. It's a vicious cycle; they all get into it sometimes. The only thing you can do, usually, is keep working it out until something randomly, unexpectedly clicks and your swing or your pitching motion slots smoothly back into place.

Zumaya's _really_ not supposed to throw without team permission. But. He's a reliever. He _can_ throw, in short spurts, many days in a row. Hell, that's the very description of what he does. And Granderson is, after all, his best friend.

"Yeah." Granderson brightens up and looks hopefully at him. Zumaya has to grin. "Yeah. Let's go."

"Should we call Verlander?"

"Hmm. I'm not supposed to throw, but you know, I can, sure. He _really_ can't, though. If he busts up his arm throwin' on the side you'd better believe he'd get a chewin' out from Leyland."

"No no no no no," Granderson hurriedly insists. "Oh man, no way, I didn't mean to _pitch_. I just meant to hang out and shit. Seems like if we were gonna be sneakin' into the park he'd wanna be in on it."

That seems likely enough and Zumaya is already grabbing his phone. He never needs much encouragement where Verlander is concerned.

\---

Comerica is dark and looms in the night, seeming much larger, somehow, than it does when it's alive and bustling with lights. They park close to the building and steal up to the players' entrance on the balls of their feet, poised to run at the slightest noise.

Granderson finds the right key after a few tense minutes of jangling the bunch in his hand, and they're in. No alarms, of course, not when they've keyed in, sometimes the office guys have to get in at all hours to deal with news coming in from the west coast, and sometimes the clubhouse guys have to get in at all hours to tailor up a uniform for a late trade or callup, can't have alarms going off all over the place just because baseball knows no timetable.

Once they're safely in the building they start laughing. Zumaya goes around flipping on the clubhouse lights and Granderson teases Verlander, "Man, if someone had been watchin' you woulda been the one caught, me and Zoom just blend right into the night, you were standin' out like a big white beacon."

"That's right," Verlander crows, executing a graceless twirl in the middle of the clubhouse and knocking over one of the empty Powerade bottles that Marcus Thames is always leaving out and forbidding the clubhouse guys to move, luck or something like it. "A shining beacon of baseball excellence."

"Shining beacon of vampire-pale, more like," Zumaya mumbles, not quietly enough, earning himself a smack to the back of the head.

There's no way to work on the field itself, not without lights, so they just open one of the underground bullpens that Comerica has built in, where the guys can warm up on rainy days. It's not ideal but there's room enough for Zumaya to pitch and Granderson to swing. The distance between them seems a little short in the enclosed space, real or imagined, but Verlander finds one of the screens the batting practice pitchers use and wrestles it into the bullpen, tipping it over almost onto its side, a process which takes an absurdly long time because Granderson and Zumaya both just sit and watch, offering helpful pointers.

Verlander is given the job of coach, watch Granderson and see where his swing is going wrong. Zumaya starts throwing, cautiously, nowhere near 100 mph, taking the opportunity to play around with his knucklecurve some more.

It's obvious that Granderson's swing is a mess. Every part of his body is striving too hard to be in the right place at the right time, and as a result no part is. Zumaya throws and throws and Granderson swings and swings, and Verlander can say nothing more than, "Keep trying, man, just keep swinging."

The place is so _quiet_. There's no thwack of rubber sandals on baseball socks, no irritable shouting coaches, no dueling conversations in two different languages from 8 different parts of a single room. The temptation is there to mess with someone's locker, switch around the photos of someone's kids or something, but mostly Zumaya just wants to pitch.

Mostly he just wants to absorb the quiet and feel the pull and flex in his shoulder in a way he never can with the noise and rush around him, nothing at all to distract but the sharp, clean crack when Granderson gets bat on ball, the thump when the ball bounds off the screen or some padded wall, the small sounds his fingers make against the seams when he digs a new baseball out of the metal gridded bucket at his side.

Verlander is silent when he's not mumbling encouragement; silent except for slight, human noises, a shushing shuffled sound when he shifts his feet or resettles his arms on the padded bar ringing the bullpen cage. They're inside Comerica but almost outside of time. They could be anywhere, anywhen, just the three of them. Pitcher, batter, observer.

Granderson fouls off another slow, looping pitch, something he should've squared around on. Zumaya pauses to fiddle with his shoes, embarrassed for him. Verlander makes a soft tsking noise.

Granderson sets his jaw and slings his bat back over his shoulder, ready for the next pitch, ready to keep hitting until he gets it. And Zumaya and Verlander, well, they'll be here until he does. Wouldn't rather be any place in the world, Zumaya thinks to himself, pitching in the quiet and pride welling up in him at Granderson's determination, at the easy willingness of Verlander to help. Wouldn't give up on these guys, not for the world.

\---

It's a little too perfect to be true, and nothing like that lasts, of course. Zumaya's always afraid of someone finding out, so afraid that he almost forgets to be afraid anymore. Their downfall, it turns out, was in not staying out long enough. If they'd just stayed out a little longer, gotten a little drunker, Granderson would have been asleep, and they would've been too drunk to do much of anything.

As it is, though, here they are, Zumaya's got Verlander's arm in his grasp and he's dragging him up the stairs to his apartment, giggling as he leans on the door. They get inside and the couch looks like as good a place as any. They're not drunk enough, so they manage to get all their clothes off, rubbing full length against each other on the couch, endless skin against skin. Luxurious, Zumaya thinks. They don't do this nearly enough.

Verlander's got his legs up, his calves crossed over the backs of Zumaya's thighs, ankles locked in place, bones fitting neatly together like little toy logs. Zumaya's gripping one of Verlander's thighs, his fingers digging into the flesh. They're sweaty and grunting and not _in_ one another but rubbing, rubbing, moving in a very unmistakable way.

Enter Granderson, sober as the day he was born and dropping the glass he was carrying onto the floor in shock.

In a perfect world or, at least, a more perfect one, the glass would have fallen onto some tiled floor and shattered into a million pieces and made a horrible, ringing sound that would have caused Zumaya to jump off of Verlander and make some plausible excuse, not that any excuse would be plausible, but just good enough. Just good enough to give them some fiction they could cling to so that everyone could forget about it.

But the world's not perfect and they've got carpet on their floors. The glass falls with a dull thump that Zumaya doesn't hear because all he can hear is the pounding blood in his own ears.

He keeps going. Rutting up against Verlander, pulling his body closer, licking away whatever sweat he can reach with his tongue. Granderson stands there, seeing it all, whole minutes of it, and with every passing second it becomes less and less something that can be washed away with a word.

"Aw, fuck, _Zoom_ ," Verlander pants, oblivious and desperate and arching his back in a delicious way that makes Zumaya push their hips together particularly hard.

"Jesus Christ!" Granderson yells. _That_ Zumaya hears. He sits up and looks around wildly, shit shit _shit_. Granderson's whole face is twitching, like he's trying to create some expression there that he doesn't know how to form.

There's nothing Zumaya can say. Granderson walked in, saw, saw some more, and here's Verlander still with his legs locked and his eyes shut tight, murmuring, _c'mon man, keep goin', don't stop now_.

Zumaya looks at Granderson with pleading eyes, begging with his face, not trusting himself to speak. Granderson looks like he's about to throw up. "That's our fuckin' _couch_ ," he says, and that's just the least of it, just the tip of the iceberg, as though the rest of it is too painful to even contemplate.

"C'mon," Verlander breathes, whines. "C'mon. Zoom?" He opens his eyes and blinks several times to focus them, first on Zumaya, the terror starting forth from his face, then over to Granderson, the appalled horror there.

Granderson's face twitches again, a hundred thousand comments he wants to make, questions he wants to ask, and he can barely get out one.

"How long?"

Zumaya doesn't want to look at anyone. He can't look at Verlander or he'll lose it, something is breaking inside of him and he isn't at all sure that if he looks he'll find support there; he's afraid to look and see Verlander curling away, afraid to look and see him curling in. He can't look at Granderson, not with sweat cooling on his bare skin and his body still twined around Verlander on the couch.

" _How long?_ "

"Since. The first Chicago series." It's barely a whisper and Zumaya can't even tell if he's said it or if it was Verlander. It doesn't really matter either way.

"The first. The first Chicago series. But that's... that's like... _months_..." Granderson trails off as this sinks in. The full impact of this is just starting to hit him. Best friends fucking, roommate gay, or _something_ , Zumaya can see it percolating through his head as though it were transparent.

Granderson's gaping now, beyond words. Zumaya and Verlander are frozen in place by his gaze, specimen-pinned to the couch, and someone's going to have to end the standoff at some point, sooner or later, but they're delaying the inevitable, because when someone moves the tableau will be broken and someone's gonna break. Zumaya's not sure if it'll be him or Verlander or Granderson.

Maybe all three.

Nothing that good ever lasts, Zumaya thinks, nothing. Now all that remains to be seen is how bad it can get.

\---

Zumaya starts spending a lot of time at Verlander's apartment. Days spent there turn into weeks turn into a month, and he's got his own toothbrush in the bathroom. He still pays rent on his and Granderson's apartment, of course. He owes Granderson that much. But Granderson doesn't talk to him anymore, not really, the light joking completely silenced, and it weighs on him too much to make him want to live through it.

It's weird living with Verlander. He doesn't get up early like Granderson does, and when he cooks it's just using the microwave to heat up something frozen. Zumaya can't wash his face in the bathroom with Verlander brushing his teeth next to him without wanting to bend him over the sink and fuck him, the sort of thing that was never a problem with Granderson, where side-by-side living had been casual and easy.

He never wanted to _live_ with Verlander. Neither of them had ever thought that way, or thought that far ahead, nothing like that. But now that Granderson knows, they're forced into it, no alternative left.

Things start to unravel at the edges.

The team loses and loses again. Leyland chain smokes in the clubhouse and sets off the smoke detectors so many times that everyone on the team has to learn how to reset them. Nate Robertson pitches well every time out and can't get anything from the rest of the team for his troubles. Magglio Ordonez runs gingerly in the outfield, balls dropping as he moves carefully on uneasy knees.

Granderson, weirdly enough, is hitting OK again. His swing's still a little too aggressive, he's still striking out enough to make the coaches frown and spit on the dugout floor, but he's making contact more often than not now, touching base enough to almost make it acceptable any place in the lineup other than leadoff. Zumaya doesn't know what he did to get back to that place. It certainly wasn't another helpful midnight session with him.

\---

Mike Maroth, earnest, uncomplaining, God-loving more than God-fearing, injured most of the season, Maroth comes back as a reliever and the bullpen immediately seems like a quieter place.

When Zumaya had been down in the minors, big league bullpen nothing but a maybe-reachable dream, the Tigers bullpen had been raucous. Led by Ugueth Urbina and Kyle Farnsworth and Troy Percival, big men with big personalities, stories trickling down the system about pranks and property destruction and orgies of violence (in Urbina's case), sex (Farnsworth) and food (Percival). It was the kind of bullpen where everyone took on the tenor of their leaders, Walker's natural manic nature encouraged by it and Fernando's proud, stubborn streak nurtured into an almost dangerous personality trait.

The bullpen's young, now, kids running the show without really running it. Todd Jones is less the wild leader and more the sternly benevolent uncle overlooking them all. Fernando doesn't give enough of a shit to be a leader, not if he isn't getting that closer title. Zumaya's as much a leader as anyone, and he surely isn't a leader of any kind. The seeds of wildness sown, the guides gone, the bullpen calms down but spirals a little aimlessly away. They pitch well, it works for the most part, no one complains.

Maroth, though. Maroth is a leader without wanting to be. He doesn't have to say anything at all to silence an entire room. The guys just sort of want to be quiet around him, Zumaya thinks, don't want to disturb him or miss something he's saying. Maroth is religious but even the guys who aren't particularly religious nod seriously when he talks about Christ and God; he's got that kind of presence.

It's not surprising, then, to see Granderson tucked away on the corner couch in the clubhouse with Maroth, pale and dark heads inclined together, hiding low voices. Zumaya notices and ignores them, then stops. Turns. Looks again.

Granderson is twisting his hands one around the other like he's nervous, ducking his head like he doesn't enjoy what he's saying or hearing. Maroth's voice is low and even and his face hidden. Zumaya can't read anything from him at all.

He's got a bad feeling, though, low in his stomach. Maroth is a pitcher and Granderson is an outfielder and Zumaya doesn't think it's baseball stuff that Granderson is asking about.

Zumaya used to go to church all the time, tagging along at the edge of his mother's skirts. He knows what God thinks about, about. Well. About whatever it is that he and Verlander are doing.

He has a feeling that he knows what Granderson is probably hearing, laid out plain and simple and sympathetic as only Maroth can do, and he can't help but feel vaguely sick to his stomach. Somehow, somehow it was one thing to know that Granderson didn't approve at some, well, some visceral level. It's another entirely to know that he's so disturbed by it that he's willing to ask Maroth for spiritual fucking guidance.

Pudge comes over and jabs Zumaya in the ribs. "Whassamatta, Zoom? Why the long in the face, huh?"

"Nothin'." Zumaya crumples up the bridge of his nose in thought. "Hey, Pudge? You're pretty big with all that, that religion shit, yeah?"

Pudge nods, wary. He crosses himself before his at-bats, he kisses his hand and points it to heaven after a hit, he keeps his cross close to the pulse at the hollow of his throat. Everyone knows it, it's as much a part of Pudge as his skin, nearly.

"So what, uh, what's up with God an', y'know, uh, well." Pudge cocks his head quizzically. Zumaya's face heats up but there's no stopping now, he's got to ask. "When there's two dudes, and they're, uh..."

"Woah woah woah!" Pudge holds up both his hands, palms outwards. "No sé. Is heavy shit." Zumaya must look crestfallen, or something, because Pudge drops his hands and curls one softly around Zumaya's forearm. "I know what _I_ think, yeah? But the rest, I ain' so sure. You wanna know, maybe you ask Mikey."

Zumaya nods silently, but he doesn't have to go ask Maroth. He knows the answer already. He just wanted to see, maybe it was different, maybe there's some loophole of morality, but Pudge isn't God and his opinion is, in the end, just his own.

Pudge has got his fingernails painted matte white, one of those ridiculous-looking things that catchers do so pitchers can read the signs they flash. Zumaya never has trouble reading Pudge's fingers, but it's an afternoon game and the shadows will be harsh, and Kenny Rogers, with his old-man eyes, makes the decision for the day.

The flat, stark white of Pudge's nails stands out sharply against the brown his fingers, layers brightly over the slim black lines of flame that crawl up past Zumaya's wrist. Whitebrownblackbrown, in that order. Pudge watches him, full of concern. Zumaya stares at the colors on his arm and worries about black and white, and the graybrown areas in between.

He's not sure where he stands, where Verlander stands, where they stand, together or apart; in the black or in the white or if they're two ends of the spectrum that swirl around into some softserve ice cream twist of them both.

\---

It's a new format for the Futures game in 2005, USA vs. the world. Some of their temporary teammates look askance at Zumaya when he flips open his phone and starts talking excitedly in Spanish, but he's just as American as the rest of them, born and bred in California, citizenship never in doubt. When they're all warming up he hears a ton of rapid-fire Spanish from the World kids, who look like they're having a blast, utterly charmed to be on a team with a bunch of kids who speak their language (the Asian kids off to the side, still the minority, quiet and a little left out, same as the big leagues).

He almost wishes he was over there with them because it looks like so much fun, and he looks more like them, and they look more like him and his family and his people. He's not wearing the same color jersey as them, though, so he isn't one of them them, but he doesn't quite feel like his USA teammates either. Staring straight up into the sharp blue of the Detroit sky, stretching his arms behind him, Zumaya wishes he could call his mother again.

Something long and lanky tackles him from behind, almost pitching him forward onto the grass. Zumaya laughs, shaken free from his reverie. He twists out from under Verlander and shoves him back off.

They're wearing the same color jersey and the same hat, the crowd knows both their names, and it doesn't matter what either one of them looks like. Zumaya has no doubt about where he belongs.


End file.
